


I Fly to You Much Wiser

by silkstocking



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 NHL Season, Dallas Stars, Goalie Nesting, Group Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 09:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16784008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkstocking/pseuds/silkstocking
Summary: Anton feels it coming on the minute they get to TD Garden. That's fucking inconvenient.Or: how to really get ready forTuesday in Columbus.





	I Fly to You Much Wiser

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nadler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nadler/gifts).



> This is, in one sense, a meditation on the culturally heterogeneous practices that might exist in the sphere of goalie nesting. It is also, in perhaps a more immediate sense, an excuse for Russian orgy porn. Happy hockey holidays, Nadler!
> 
> PS I did my best with the whole business of Russian nicknames, but at some point you just have to roll with it.

Anton feels it coming on the minute they get to TD Garden. That's fucking inconvenient.

It's not totally unexpected, though. He's nested in this building several times before but this is the first time he’ll take the net here as an opponent. And maybe Sasha getting sent home helped trigger something. He’s always had a strong protective instinct.

He tries to fight it off until tomorrow. There’s no reason to give the Boston crowd any extra ammunition for booing him. But Tuukka takes one look at him in warmups and laughs. “I know that look.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Anton tells him. It comes out a little harsher than he intended; this is Tuuks, Tuuks his friend, Tuuks who has shared his nest in the past, but right now all of Anton’s instincts are telling him Tuukka is a predator. An enemy.

“Fuck you,” Tuukka says, because he's never been one to de-escalate. “Man, nesting makes you fucking cranky.”

Anton bares his teeth, and Tuukka laughs, but he shuffles back a little when he restarts his stretching routine.

They lose, they _lose_ , even though Anton carefully tends to his crease and his posts, and he feels like he's going to hit something. Or somebody. Maybe somebody on the Bruins. Maybe not. He breaks a stick against the wall and snaps at Bish when he tries to give him some dumb platitude. Thank god Bish isn't nesting too. Nobody tries to talk to him after that.

On the plane, Anton gathers every blanket there is and piles them in his seat. There aren't enough. At some point, Razor comes down the aisle and wordlessly hands Anton two more. They must be his personal stash. One of the equipment guys offers Anton a pile of practice jerseys and he takes those too. That might almost be enough.

He's arranging the nest when he hears someone say behind him, “Is there a kitchen for Dobby when we get to Columbus?”

“What the fuck, Dicky?”

“Isn't he nesting? Last year McKenna, like, cooked constantly for a week,” Dickinson says. “We couldn't even eat it all.”

“I don't think he's that kind of goalie. They all do different shit. Bish is pretty chill. Karps and Nemo, oh man. They wouldn't talk to anyone but each other the whole time.”

“Rads would know.”

“Yeah. Sucks he's not here.”

Anton agrees; he had been missing Sasha already but the nesting instinct has turned it into a physical ache. His nest is good now, but it's too empty. He's always been the kind of goalie that nests better with company.

“Dobby?” Val looms above Anton’s space like an awkward young giraffe. “Do you need anything?”

He isn't Sasha but he's _Sasha’s_ , and he's team, and he sounds like home.

“Valera,” Anton says, “sit with me.”

Val looks startled to be addressed that way, but sits all the same. Anton fusses with the blankets around them until he's satisfied.

“Stay there,” he says. Val doesn't argue. He falls asleep soon after takeoff, head drooping onto Anton’s shoulder. By unspoken agreement, he takes the seat next to Anton on the bus afterwards.

In the hotel lobby, Anton catches snatches of conversation.

“Did you see—?”

“Nesting—”

“He let Val in? I tried to talk to him before and he gave me the full-on murder eyes,” Shore says.

“Val’s the chosen one,” Seguin says, laughing.

Anton looks at Val, who stayed close; he gives Anton a strangely shy smile. When no one is looking, Anton gives him the spare keycard for his hotel room. He keeps the blankets, and the practice jerseys.

Later, when he can't stand being alone in his room, he Skypes Sasha.

“What the fuck, you're nesting without me?” Sasha demands. “I got so many messages. I thought this would be the year I got to see it.”

“I don't control it,” Anton says. “Is that why you begged me to come to Dallas? Here, you can see it.” He sweeps the tablet’s camera over the blankets on the bed.

Sasha laughs, tinny through the speaker. “Beautiful nest, Antokha.”

The praise, embarrassingly, makes Anton’s chest swell. “It's not as good as it should be,” he says. “When we get home, I'll make a better one.”

Just then, the door clicks open and Val enters.

“Sorry,” he says, and makes to leave again, but Sasha says, “Is that Nicha?”

“Yes,” Anton says. He doesn't tell Sasha what happened, but Sasha has always been perceptive.

“Come in, talk to me, tell Dobby what a nice nest he made,” Sasha says. “I’ve missed you, Big Valeri.”

Val kicks off his shoes in the doorway and walks over to the bed. He pauses, waiting for Anton to give him permission. A rush of warmth surges through Anton and he reaches for Val’s hand, pulling him down into the nest.

Sasha makes a noise of approval. “It's good that you take care of him when I'm not there,” he says, and Anton’s honestly not sure which of them he's talking to. Both, maybe.

“How are you feeling?” Val asks, picking up Anton’s tablet.

“Bored. Annoyed. Much better now I saw your face,” Sasha says, grinning and exposing his missing teeth. Val flushes an interesting shade of pink. “I saw the game too. Fucking Bruins.”

“Sorry,” Val says to Anton. “I should have helped you more.”

Anton nods—because someone should have—but he appreciates the apology.

Sasha says, “You're too hard on yourself. Don't take all the blame.”

“Sasha never admits when he's wrong,” Anton says. He takes the tablet from Val and props it on the nightstand where Sasha can see them both. “Don't take advice from him.”

“Such drama,” Sasha says. "Blame the defensemen instead, it's usually their fault."

Val laughs. He looks alive when he laughs, far more handsome than the downtrodden young man that Anton had first met only a few months ago. Sasha and his generous affection have been good for him. Anton wonders, sometimes, if they sleep together. It's not that he minds; Sasha might be generous with his affection, but his lovers must be generous with him. It's more that Anton thinks they would make a striking sight, Val's eager youth against the familiar dark lines of Sasha's body.

“Nesting goalies are very special. You should appreciate he lets you share,” Sasha is saying.

Anton catches Sasha’s eye on the screen and he thinks they're all on the same page. He covers Val’s hand with his and says, “Thank you for sharing my nest, Valesha.”

Val’s eyes are very wide as Anton leans up to kiss him.

His lips are rough but warm. Anton goes slowly, so Val has chance to pull away and say it's all a misunderstanding, but he doesn't. He melts against Anton, parting his lips with a soft sigh.

Sasha makes a noise in the background, a sharp intake of breath. "Antokha," he whines, and Anton cups Val's face gently, turns him so Sasha can see the join of their lips. "Beautiful," Sasha murmurs, and Val responds with a gasp against Anton's skin.

Every atom of Anton's body is singing out at the rightness of this, of _nest_ , and _home_ , and _mates_. If he played right now, he could make a hundred saves, repel every foreign thing from his net even if it were sent toward him by Kharlamov himself.

Val raises a hand as if to touch Anton’s face and then hesitates, the way he had when approaching the nest.

“You’re allowed,” Anton says. “I want you to.”

Val’s calloused fingers caress Anton’s cheek, lightly, like he's a porcelain doll and not a red-blooded hockey player.

“I’ve never touched a nesting goalie before today,” Val says.

“I won't break,” Anton says, “and you can touch other places than there.” He takes Val’s hand and guides it down to the front of his pants, where his cock is beginning to take interest in the proceedings. "You've done this before, right?"

Val nods, his eyes flicking over to the tablet, which Anton supposes answers several questions at once.

Anton kisses the corner of Val’s mouth, then his cheek, and bites at the rough stubble of his jawline. "Please," he murmurs, and that seems to unlock whatever's holding Val back. He turns his head to catch Anton’s lips again, squeezing Anton’s dick at the same time as he presses his tongue into Anton’s mouth. Anton moans, and hears an answering grunt from Sasha. He doesn't need to look to know Sasha's touching himself.

Val has hands like Sasha’s, winger’s hands, and he knows how to use them. Anton rests his head on Val’s shoulder as Val jerks him off with firm, practiced strokes. Sasha is talking somewhere in the background, keeping up a litany of advice on what Anton likes, and Val is clearly highly coachable. Anton loses himself in the feel of Val’s skin against his, the taste of his mouth, the low purr of Sasha’s voice. His orgasm builds slow and sweet, like poured molasses spreading under his skin until he's spilling over with it.

He stretches after, sated, and presses a kiss to Val's mouth. "Let me suck you off."

"Show me," he hears Sasha say, sounding breathless, the way he does when he's close to orgasm. Anton thinks Val must know that too. Strange, to think this is closing that loop; soon they'll all know that about each other.

Anton reaches over to grab the tablet and gives it to Val to deal with. Whatever, he probably takes enough dick pics that he knows the best angles. Then he focuses on getting Val out of his suit.

Val’s dick is just as big as the rest of him, and it takes Anton a couple of tries to find the best way to go at it, but he's rewarded with a high-pitched whine from Val and a string of curse words from Sasha when he gets it all in.

“Fuck, Antokha, you always look so fucking good sucking dick,” Sasha says. “How does he feel?”

“Good,” Val says, sounding strangled, and then, “fuck, fuck, Dobby.”

Anton breathes through his nose and sucks. Val's making desperate little sounds, clenching his fingers on Anton's shoulder as his dick twitches in Anton's mouth. Distantly, he hears Sasha groan and curse and come. It doesn't take Val long to follow suit.

Anton's not really keen on leaving the nest right now, so he swallows, grimaces, and kisses Val hard. Sharing the wealth, he thinks, and grins at his own joke. The tablet is somewhere in the blankets, discarded; Anton hunts down the sound of Sasha's ragged breathing.

"Are you good?" Anton asks. Sasha smirks and holds up his jizz-covered hand, which: disgusting. Hockey players are really the worst kind of people. "Jesus. We're going now."

"Don't fuck without me," Sasha says.

"Goodnight, Sasha," Anton says firmly, but they're both smiling as he ends the call.

Despite their height difference, Anton tugs Val down to be the little spoon, tightening his arms around him and pressing his cold feet to Val’s warm calves. He laughs at Val’s grumble and kisses his shoulder. Val doesn't try too hard to leave.

Bishop gets the starter’s nod in Columbus and Anton simmers with something hot and possessive but he's been around long enough to get it. You don't play the backup on both nights of a back to back, even if he is nesting. He sits on the bench, surrounded water bottles and pilfered warm-up pucks, and glowers. Each time Val comes off the ice, he touches his glove to Anton's. It helps.

The loss feels a little like vindication.

Back in Dallas, he can nest the right way. He starts with his stall, filling it with things that feel right: towels, Sasha’s locker nameplate, one of Val’s gloves. The equipment guys watch him. He thinks they're trying not to laugh, but they don't try to stop him. Next is the net. He lovingly cleans the crease, smoothing out the ice he usually wants to rough up. He touches the posts in turn, and then the crossbar, and finally squats down inside the net to gaze out across the ice. He's never been sure how guys as tall as Bish would do this part; maybe they do something else.

The guys come out for practice and they give Anton a pretty wide berth, running drills at the other end on Bish, mostly. At some point, Sasha comes onto the ice in his sneakers and shorts, and Anton feels intensely fond of that ridiculous man. He watches from the net as the guys crowd around Sasha, their own fondness clear. The talk that drifts over turns, eventually, back to Anton.

“Has anyone tried going near?” Jamie asks.

“At least he doesn't sit on the net and hiss at you like Kari used to. Fuck, that was scary.”

"I heard some goalies nest by literally turning into a bird," Smith says.

“Who do you know that turned into a bird?”

“Nobody,” Smith says, defensively, “but that's what I heard.”

“You're an idiot, Smitty,” Seguin says fondly.

“Fuck off, Segs. You thought Amsterdam was a country.”

There's general laughter.

“In Russia, goalie nest is… what's the word, holy?” Sasha says. “Special. Shouldn't touch.”

“Holy?” Jamie asks. “Like, the hockey gods?”

“Yes, exactly,” Sasha says. “The hockey gods give blessing when goalie nests.” He grins his gap-toothed grin. “And Russian goalie make best nest.”

“Isn't Dobby from Kazakhstan?” Spezza says. Sasha waves a hand like that's irrelevant to his argument. Anton laughs, and the rest of them turn to look at him.

“He doesn't look holy,” Honka says, doubtfully.

Anton offers a slow smile, with all his teeth. Honka nearly trips over his own skates and then it's Sasha’s turn to laugh.

Denis Gurianov, fresh up from Cedar Park, watches the whole discussion with an expression of awe. In the locker room before the game, Anton sees him and Val talking in hushed voices, heads bent together. He's not surprised when Val comes over, looking a little sheepish.

“Guri wants…”

"He wants what you got yesterday?" Anton asks, keeping his voice low.

Val flushes. "I didn't tell him everything. He's just never touched a nesting goalie either."

"Tell him to come here," Anton says, and watches, amused, as Val relays the message.

Guri crosses the room and, unexpectedly, kneels in front of Anton’s stall. Anton blinks down at him a couple of times before putting his hand on Guri’s shoulder and pulling him forward. When Anton kisses him on the forehead, Guri’s face lights up as if he just scored on a breakaway and he stammers out his thanks. It's very sweet. It's been a long time since Anton had so many Russians around, to treat him with such reverence.

When he tunes back in, an unusual quiet has fallen over the locker room. “Holy,” Sasha pronounces, with finality, from his post at the door.

Anton notices Honka hovering tentatively behind Guri and beckons him forward too.

“Well, it can’t hurt,” Spezza says, shrugging and lining up behind Honka. The rest of the team falls in too.

“Don't think you're all getting this from me,” Bish says, but he crouches down in front of Anton for his turn regardless. Anton plants a smacking kiss on his mouth and laughs at his outraged expression.

Sasha swaggers over once the rest have dispersed, or at least as much as a man can swagger with a lower body injury. “Don't I get a turn?”

“You're not even playing,” Anton says. “Stop bothering me.”

Sasha ignores him and sits down in Anton’s stall, using his big ass to make space. Anton squeezes Sasha’s thigh, and lets the contentment of _mate_ carry him through his pre-game routines.

They win, and Shoresy wears the cowboy hat for all of two minutes before giving it to Anton to add to the collection of objects in his stall.

“Thanks for the goals, Dobby,” Shoresy says, grinning. “Rads, I like your Russian magic.”

“His magic, not mine,” Sasha says from the spot in Anton’s stall that he's reoccupied.

Shoresy holds out both of his fists for them to bump.

“How does your leg feel?” Anton asks, after Shoresy leaves. He’s antsy, body aching all over but high on victory endorphins and nesting instincts. It's not like they make him _need_ sex, not the way people sometimes think, but they definitely make him horny as fuck.

Sasha gives him a considering look and says, “Invite the kids too.”

Later, back at Anton’s place, Sasha plants himself among the blankets on the bed with his leg propped up as comfortably as possible, and proceeds to bossily run the show. Anton’s happy to let him, especially when Sasha's got two thick fingers inside him, making Anton’s muscles stretch and burn like the best kind of workout. He breathes through his nose and tangles his fingers in the pile of blankets and moves his body in concert with Sasha’s. Next to him, Val is kissing down Sasha’s bare chest, his stomach, toward his dick.

Guri perches on the edge of the bed uncertainly, still mostly clothed and watching the three of them with hungry eyes, until Sasha says, "Come on, Den’ka, don't you want to see how that magic goalie mouth feels on your dick as well?"

"I thought he was going to fuck me," Anton protests, "since you're useless right now."

Sasha hooks his fingers at that, sending a spark of pleasure up Anton's spine that makes him gasp. Anton can already imagine the smug expression Sasha's wearing.

“Then don't make him come,” Sasha says. “Or do, he's young enough to go again."

Anton reaches over to tug at Guri’s suit pants. “Take these off,” he says. Guri almost falls over in his haste to strip, flushing when Anton smirks up at him.

Guri has a pretty dick, it turns out. Anton very much wants to taste it. He kisses the shaft, softly, and then brushes his lips over the reddened head just to watch Guri shiver. Then he swallows him down.

At the same moment, Sasha presses another finger into Anton. Anton jerks forward and Guri yelps as his dick hits the back of Anton’s throat. Sasha just laughs, the bastard, until he cuts himself off with a moan that must be Val doing something. Sucking his dick, maybe. Good. Anton wants to focus on Guri, on making it good for him. He uses more spit, lets himself get messy, and relishes every little noise that Guri makes.

He doesn't pull off when he feels Guri's legs start to shake, but that means he's braced for it when Guri comes. He's not braced for the way Val grabs him after, as if he's trying to kiss Guri out of Anton's mouth. After a surprised couple of seconds, Anton lets him take the lead. Val kisses with none of the hesitancy that he showed before, biting at Anton’s lip and grinding his hard dick against Anton’s thigh, grappling Anton over so that Sasha’s fingers twist with a burst of intense pleasure and then slip out of him.

Anton moans, lamenting the loss, but then Val is sliding down Anton’s body and coaxing his knees apart and then—

Anton’s pretty sure he lets out a stream of curses and nonsense judging by Sasha’s laughter, but he doesn't care at all because Val, lovely Val, clever Val, gets his mouth on Anton's hole and _sucks_. Anton's whole body feels sensitised, like every brush of Sasha's hands, every movement of Val's tongue, every scrape of his stubble has been magnified a thousandfold. He can't keep still, pressing back shamelessly against Val's face until he feels Val's teeth scrape across his rim. He's so fucking wet. He feels loose and open, spit dripping down behind his balls. He could come like this, without a hand on him. He can feel it building. His dick is leaking all over his stomach.

And then Sasha says something to Val, and Val pulls away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Anton lies on his back, just breathing, for a long moment, while the others move around him in changing constellations.

Eventually, he gathers his wits enough to roll over. He kneels up in front of Sasha, running a careful hand over Sasha’s injured leg. “Still good?” he asks.

Sasha gestures to his semi and says, “Would be better if you were sucking it.”

Anton rolls his eyes, but goes.

He's sucked several dicks over the last few days, but Sasha’s is like an old friend. Anton savours the feel of it growing to fill his mouth. He smells musky here, the familiar way Sasha always smells, but he tastes a little like Val. Sasha’s hands wander haphazardly over Anton’s back, his hair, his jaw.

Somewhere above them, Guri groans, and when Anton pulls off to look, Val is kissing him. Sasha makes a noise of protest.

Anton grins up at him. “What?”

“What happened?”

“They were hotter than you,” Anton tells him. “I got distracted.”

“Nobody’s hotter than me,” Sasha declares, but Anton notices his eyes straying to the kids as well. Val has his hand on Guri’s dick, getting him hard again, and Sasha was right: that didn't take long. “Ready, Den’ka?” Sasha asks.

Val smacks Guri’s ass in the universal gesture of encouragement. Guri swallows, nods, and runs a reverent finger over Anton's hole before lining up his dick and pushing in. Anton shudders with pleasure, sensation shooting through him as Guri buries himself deep, hips bumping Anton’s ass. Suddenly Sasha is cupping his face, guiding Anton’s mouth back onto his dick, and he's caught between them, full again, deliciously full everywhere, rocking back onto Guri’s dick each time he pulls off Sasha’s.

It feels like Guri would be happy to stay like that, letting Anton fuck himself on his dick, but there's pressure building in Anton’s belly and this isn't enough. Guri's hands are tentative on his hips; Anton's pretty sure he's fucked someone before, but maybe he's just nervous about having an audience. Or it could be the goalie thing again. Anton meets Sasha’s gaze and raises an eyebrow. Sasha covers one of Guri's hands with his own and squeezes.

"You can do it harder," Sasha tells him. "He likes it a little rough."

But Guri doesn't seem to want to do it rough. He grips Anton’s hips to hold him in place and fucks him maddeningly slowly, carefully, until Anton's writhing against him and begging him for more with every breath. He can't keep up a decent rhythm on Sasha's cock, but Sasha doesn't seem to be complaining; he's praising Guri in a low voice, his fingers still holding Guri's on Anton's hip. There are more hands everywhere, stroking Anton's skin. Someone's hand is on his dick, but Anton's no longer sure whose it is. He closes his eyes tightly and gives in to them all, trusting them to take care of him, and each other.

He's expecting Guri to come first, so much so that his own orgasm takes him by surprise, like a sudden tilt into freefall after a steady climb. He's still soaring on it when Guri’s hips stutter and he collapses down onto Anton’s back, murmuring something inaudible into Anton’s shoulder as he comes. After a moment, Anton’s arms give way, sending both of them sprawling into a messy heap.

“Watch the leg!” Sasha yelps. “Fuck.”

“Sorry,” Anton says, squirming out from under Guri to wrap his arm around Sasha and kiss an apology into his skin. He lazily finishes jerking Sasha off while they both watch Val pin Guri to the bed and frot frantically against him until he comes all over Guri’s abs. Sasha kisses Anton, slow and dirty with lots of tongue, and before long Anton's dick is twitching, futilely, to get involved again.

"Fuck, Sasha, have mercy," Anton says, as Sasha gives it an experimental squeeze, making Anton’s overstimulated nerves chime with painful pleasure. "I need to save some fucking energy."

"I have plenty of energy," Sasha says. It’s clearly bullshit; he's looking down at Anton through half-lidded eyes.

"Go fuck Val then," Anton mumbles. Sasha hums noncommittally and tugs at Anton until he gives in and goes where he knows Sasha wants him: his head resting on Sasha's chest, Sasha's hand in his hair.

He feels like he's glowing with the bone-deep contentment that comes from a well-made nest, from winning, from really fucking satisfying sex. Fuck, he never wants to be on a team without Russians again. Without _Sasha_ again.

“How long do goalies nest for?” Guri asks, hopefully, from where he's curled up with Val, and the vibrations of Sasha’s laughter rumble through Anton’s body as if it were his own.


End file.
